Cafe des Artistes

As we turned off of Central Park West and drew near the green awning heralding Café des Artistes, Dave cast an uneasy glance towards Liz. 

“Ummm—am I dressed okay?” 

He peered in the window at the magnificent sprays of flowers and waiters in white coats bustling to and fro.

“Well—,” Liz endeavored to be diplomatic; “I’m not quite sure.”  She confided to me later that in the excitement of the golden day it was the first time she had even considered Dave’s impending dilemma.  

Standing on the curb outside the door, Philip, Liz and I looked Dave up and down and consulted among ourselves, like so many tailors upon a particularly challenging assignment.  It was Liz who at last received inspiration.

“Dave, you can put on Philip’s coat!”  She reached for said article as Philip surrendered it and transferred it to Dave, beaming with the pleasure of the satisfactory resolution.  “No one will suspect a thing!”

“Yeah, not even when they see that it’s about two sizes too big for me,” he muttered genially.  Dave is the epitome of a good sport.  He did look funny, though, the long coat hanging heavily on him and bulging out strangely in the middle with the notorious ski vest.  “Alright!” he said, plunging the boggan in one of the pockets and rubbing his hands together.  “Let’s eat!”

We scarcely glanced at the sumptuous lobby of the Hotel des Artistes, which is actually an apartment building, but swept as unobtrusively as possible into the restaurant.  I immediately felt my face flush with the warmth of the room.  No matter how powerless New Yorkers may be over the weather, they certainly know how to keep their indoors cozy!  We were met at the door by a maitre d who promptly acknowledged our reservation—but it was what I saw behind him that gave me cause for alarm.  A coat check girl, extending eager arms for the trappings we were equally eager to shed in the toasty environment.  All of us but Dave, that is.  I wondered how he would pass the gauntlet.

With grace, as usual.  When asked to give up his coat he flashed his winning smile and pulled the drooping lapels a bit higher around his neck.  “Nah—I think I’ll just keep it.” 

We followed the maitre d through two small, darkly paneled rooms painted splendidly with the original murals of Howard Chandler Christy for which the place has always been famous.  They were, in fact, the deciding factor in our choice for the evening, thinking that our own someday-famous-artists would enjoy the museum-like quality of the dining room.  Particularly Liz, who owns at least as many Edwardian-era novels illustrated by Christy as I do.  But even in my enchantment, I was not dull to the mild-eyed astonishment which greeted Dave’s completely un-self conscious procession.   Granted, the rest of the clientele was, on average, a good thirty years older than any of us.  But the look with which the woman at the table next to us sized him up was one of undisguised horror.  The only thing that I can liken it to is the curled-lip scorn of ‘Miss Grey’ in Sense and Sensibility upon Elinor and Marianne’s inadequate ball gowns.  I almost laughed out loud!  And I don’t think that Dave even noticed.

We were delighted with our table…tucked in the farthest nook of the small dais that ran across the back of the restaurant, with a friendly portrait of Christy himself smiling benevolently upon us.  He made us feel quite welcome, and once the ordeal of the entrance was over we were all able to sit back and soak in the most perfect atmosphere that I ever could have hoped for.  The air was fragrant with lilies and old wood and coffee and meaty aromas, and the conversation was a soft hum in the background.  I reached across the table and squeezed Philip’s hand.  “This is it—this is the New York I wanted to see.”  I felt positively suffused with history and old-world refinement.  As far as I’m concerned, the modern world can keep its hip new places and up-and-coming ‘dining experiences’.  Give me the spots where the writers and artists and dancers of another day have lingered over pot au feu and Madeira!          

It was an amazing evening.  For almost two hours we savored an absolutely beautiful French meal.  Before we began, however, I seized the opportunity to propose a toast.  Glasses were lifted expectantly, and with a dramatic little breath I proclaimed, “To the greatest City in the world!”  Philip cleared his throat and added, “And to our host and hostess for the weekend, whose birthdays we happen to be celebrating tonight,” with a significant look in my direction.

“Oh, yes, of course—them, too!”